Shirtless
by DrKCooper
Summary: Missing scene for "Solve for X" (2x2). What should have happened with Sherlock shirtless.


_Disclaimer: All recognizable _Elementary_ characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners including, but not limited to Arthur Conan Doyle and CBS. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this fan fiction story. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No financial gain is associated with the publishing of this story. No copyright infringement is intended._

_Author's Note: Sherlock shirtless. How could I pass this up? Missing scene for "Solve for X" (2x2). –DKC_

Shirtless

Joan sat cross-legged in the chair, sipping her tea as she watched Sherlock continue his sit-ups. At the late hour, it was impossible to convince herself not to watch his shirtless form. This was a line Joan Watson did not cross. She did everything in her power to not gaze at him when they worked cases together. When he wandered into their kitchen in the mornings, his hair a mess and his loose pajama pants hanging from his hips, she turned away or focused on her breakfast. Unfortunately, at this moment, even the case they were attempting to solve could not tear Joan's eyes from Sherlock's bare skin.

Suddenly Sherlock stood and informed her that he would advance her the money she had asked him for. How did this man know her so well? How did he know the blame she carried as if it were his own burden to bear? She often wondered how they had become so close in many ways and yet distant in others. As he explained why giving her the money was against his better judgment, her eyes were drawn to the harsh lines of his collarbone, the distinct chest hair below those lines and, of course, the ink that covered his left shoulder and bicep. They were close enough for him to understand the guilt she carried, the blame she placed on herself for a patient's death, but not close enough for her to have intimate knowledge of what his chest felt like under her hands.

Her attention was brought back to his words as he told her that he knew no poison to be as toxic as guilt. His anger, if that's what it truly was, awoke her frustration. Who was he to tell her what she should or shouldn't do? Who was he to withhold this from her?

She was stunned when she opened the box to find twenty-two thousand dollars. She had asked him for an advance of five thousand. The amount of cash was astounding and confusing. She quickly walked into the kitchen with the money to confront him, finding him pulling his shirt back over the muscles she had given her attention moments before. If she was stunned to find the amount of cash in the box, she was even more astounded by the amount of thought he had put into the "transaction" as he called it.

Why did he care? Why were her mistakes, past or present, his concern? He told her the money was his gift to her, but that admission was not merely about the money. He wanted the weight of her past mistakes to no longer burden her. He was, and perhaps had always been, concerned about her happiness. How could she ever be happy if this guilt loomed? How could she ever be happy with the present or even the future if the past continued to spring up when she least expected it?

She turned her back on him, as if to leave the room, but her hesitation held her at the dining room table. She asked him about the case, an attempt to not end this moment with him. She wanted badly to thank him for the money, to thank him for his concern, to thank him for his friendship. She had no idea what to say and found the case a welcome distraction. However, they couldn't discuss the case forever and as she stood, leaning against the back of a chair, there was a silence in the room. Sherlock sat at the table, his fingers intertwined before him, staring at the items spread out on the table before him.

"How do you let the past go so easily?" she asked him, seemingly out of nowhere.

"Watson, you can't possibly assume I do. I am, after all, an addict. My past is a constant threat to my present and my future."

She looked everywhere but at him. She knew that if she looked at him there would be the chance she might lose control. The former surgeon in her demanded control of every situation. There were far too many times when in Sherlock's company that she felt on the precipice of losing control. She too frequently felt she might lose control of her emotions or her desires.

"How do you live with the guilt?" Joan all but whispered, still not making eye contact.

"You, Watson, have done everything you can to make amends for what was, as I stated, an accident," Sherlock stood from his chair and walked toward her, a movement that forced her eyes to look to his. "What I have done, the guilt I carry, is a burden of greater consequence, I believe."

"I caused his death," she said, not moving from her place as he stood before her, his right hip pressed against the edge of the table.

"An accident, Watson. You have to believe that," he insisted.

She looked at her hands, hands that betrayed her once. He noted her change of focus and reached for those soft, precise hands. He took them both into his own larger, rough hands; the differences between them distinct and not unlike the differences in their personalities.

When her eyes rose from their hands to his eyes, she was surprised by the gentility in his stare. Moments before his frustration had played out on his face, but not now. No, now he was the man she trusted with her life. Now he was the Sherlock that named a bee after her. Now his hands were gently making their way up her bare arms until they slipped under strands of her hair and reached her neck. His large hands encircled the sides of her neck, his thumbs lazily placed on her throat. He felt her swallow hard and smiled that brilliant, deviant smile of his.

"Sherlock," her voice was raw and foreign to her.

"Take the money, Joan," he said, her first name tumbling out of his mouth carefully, as if he were afraid that saying it would do it damage.

She looked down, noticing the ink barely visible around the band of his t-shirt. It reminded her of him shirtless when this conversation began. He noted her interest as well as her subtly licking her lips. It was all the permission he needed as he leaned toward her, their lips making contact. It was soft and calm, very unlike Sherlock's manic personality. His hands put more pressure to her neck as the kiss lingered. She wanted to touch him, the back of the chair, however, still separated them. When the kiss ended, there was a peculiar look on Sherlock's face.

"What?" her curiosity getting the best of her.

He grinned as he used what little leverage he had while still holding onto her to turn her body and maneuver himself around the chair. Now with inches between them, he pressed against her, the table now biting into her lower back. His mouth crashed into hers and the manic, ardent Sherlock was back. The kiss was passionate and demanding. Her hands gripped his hips, hips that were firmly against her, revealing his desire. The bottom edge of his t-shirt was located and the hands that were once masters of surgery now lifted the article over his head with complete abandon.

Standing before her, the defined muscles, soft hair and ornate ink were a wonder. Her hands began below his navel, making their way slowly upward until they reached the collarbone she had admired earlier. As her hands reached his neck, the look shared between them was frenzied. They both knew this would happen eventually.

Though it would have happened eventually, neither knew all it would take was a late night, a tough case and Sherlock shirtless.

_-finis-_


End file.
